


Greet a Small Death

by authoresswithoutwords



Series: Small Death [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creature Stiles Stilinski, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Minor Character Death, Stiles Stilinski Returns, The Pack Being Idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 04:50:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18087767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoresswithoutwords/pseuds/authoresswithoutwords
Summary: After the events of Meet a Small Death, Peter and Stiles have left Beacon Hills and are on a roadtrip. With the luck only an inhabitant of Beacon Hills can have, they stop quite a lot. Involuntarily. And meet up with some beings. And would prefer never to have met that certain being, even if Stiles claims that Peter liked it a bit. And who is Peter to argue with his annoying travelling companion?He's Peter Hale."And now stop with your singing, or I swear I will throw you out of this car!""But you like me!""I like my hearing more!""...Liar!"





	Greet a Small Death

Within three hours, Stiles and Peter had packed and were ready to go. Another hour was spent discussing which car they were going to take. In the end, “your jeep is old and basically runs on love” won over “your car is way too beautiful to use it on all kinds of roads”, even if only barely. What Stiles lacked in sound argument, he made up for with stubbornness.

As it then was relatively early, the duo decided to pass by the station. It was shortly before the Sheriff’s shift ended, so they’d have plenty of time to tell him about their new plans.

With a cheerful greeting, Stiles strode into the police station and marched right up to the Sheriff’s office. Peter followed, giving apologetic smiles to the deputies who seemed amused rather than annoyed by Stiles’ behaviour. The might of time and adaption, Peter mused.

Stiles knocked. The Sheriff opened the door. He looked at Stiles. He looked at Peter. Then, he gazed heavenward, eyes closed either in exasperation or desperate prayer. “Tell me it’s not what it looks like. Please. I beg you.”

Stiles grinned up to him, bright like the sun. “We’re eloping!”

The Sheriff sighed, then ushered them inside. Peter did as he instructed, bewilderment clear on his features. “How did you do that? Are you telepathic?”

“Nothing like that”, the Sheriff sighed. “When you know him long enough… And if you knew Claudia…”

“So alike?” Peter seemed caught between a fond smile at the thought of the mother-son-duo, both red-cheeked and beaming from whatever mischief they had caused, and a grimace when he thought how hard it must have been – not only after Claudia’s going to Death when the Sheriff had lost his beloved wife, but at the same time still had a copy of her running around, but also beforehand. The antics of one Stiles alone drove Peter crazy. He didn’t want to imagine a second one scheming nearby. For a moment, he wistfully remembered his cousin who’d perished in the fire. She’d had twins, little kids who looked like angels, but acted like a whole dozen of demons. As time passed, they grew out of it. But with Stiles, who technically was as old as, if not older than, Peter, it clearly was a mischievousness that would never go away. At the end of his musings, he was resigned to all hare-brained antics. He hoped. He’d learned never to underestimate Stiles.

The Sheriff made a surprisingly similar face. His thought process approximately followed Peter’s. “It went as well as you imagine. Chaos and mayhem all around.”

“Hey!”, Stiles protested indignantly, tone playfully upset as if it didn’t please him how well his father and his – partner? – got along. “No conniving behind my back! And Dad, you wanted that wall to be brown! I know it.”

“No”, replied the Sheriff dryly. “Claudia wanted a brown wall. _I_ wanted a yellow wall. That’s why I painted it yellow. When I bought you those water colours, I wanted you to draw houses and trees on paper, like any other child I know. I didn’t have a secret agenda to make you and your mother try those colours out on my newly painted, not even dry wall.”

Stiles grinned again and lightly hit his father’s shoulder. “I know denial’s hard to shake, but I have faith in you. You should try meditation.”

The Sheriff levelled him with a wry look. “ _You_ want me to try _meditation_?” He shook his head. “You know, at first, it was hard to believe that my son – my underage son, mind you – not only died, but now is my age mentally, but never will be physically. But that, that sentence, would have convinced me immediately.”

“I like meditation!”, Stiles protested. Both men broke out in laughter. Stiles pouted, “What?”

“Stiles”, Peter snickered, “before your meeting with Death, you couldn’t even sit still for a minute.”

“What? I was ill! That doesn’t mean I didn’t like meditation!”

The men exchanged suspicious glances. “Right…”

“Anyway, onto business!” Stiles clapped his hands and looked at his father expectantly.

“Yes, sure, alright. Sit down, please.”

He pointed at the two chairs before his desk – he could have sworn there was only one before Stiles and Peter entered – and sat down, himself.

“Explain yourselves.”

They told him about Scott and that now that he knew that a Death, surprisingly, _sent people to Heaven, Hell or Purgatory_ , he’d feel “morally obliged or some such rot, you know him, Dad, he can be such a _terror_ ” to find a way to stop Stiles. Short of lethal means, he’d try everything, all three agreed. A nearby psychiatric institution, Eichen House, “treated” supernatural creatures as well as humans, Peter revealed. Stiles nodded along.

“In the basement, there’s an old soul who’s trying everything to evade Death. But it won’t be able to escape forever. One Death always watches over it, waiting for that one moment that it slips up. They take away all its playthings and try to provoke it without revealing their existence.”

“Playthings?”, Peter asked cautiously. He knew that Stiles’ moral compass was even further askew than his own. He needed it for his line of work, but tended to forget how disturbing it was for other people.

This was one of those instances.

Cheerfully, he explained, “They kidnap children and then try to fuse them with supernatural material. They made a few chimeras, but they all went to Death before the old soul could play with them further.”

The Sheriff looked ill. Peter wrinkled his nose. “How… delightful. Do you want me to go help out?”

“No? The old soul won’t be able to hide forever. The runes to keep Deaths away will run out of power, and that weird concoction that strengthens the body won’t last much longer, either. And Lady Death always complains that the little ones are healthy again so soon.”

“No, I am not torturing children so that they may be more damaged so that your maybe-kind-of boss can stay with them longer.”

“I didn’t want to ask that of you! I know you too well. Besides, the best torture comes from a creative and sadistic human mind. And not your type of sadism, zombie wolf.”

Stiles turned around to continue the discussion, but stopped short when he looked at the green tinge of his father’s face. “What’s wrong? Are you ill? Do I need to call the hospital? Or get you sick leave from work?”

“Stiles, darling”, Peter drawled, “not all humans are as equipped as I am to talk about tortured children without even blinking.”

Stiles turned back to Peter and asked, confused, “But why? They are healed by Lady Death.”

“Because they still feel pain and suffering over here.”

“But they won’t really remember! It’s like thinking back on the pain of the hand a human breaks in childhood. I only remember that it hurt, not how much or anything. The most profound horrors are more like a nightmare of which you’ve forgotten the horror.”

Peter petted his head. “And that’s why you are a Death. Normal humans can’t quite understand that. And when do you forget the horror connected to a nightmare?”

“I often had them. Like, once I dreamed that there were Mums everywhere. They chased me and hunted me down and then tried to eat me. I woke up, and was afraid, and went up to hug my Mum, and then I remembered that I actually am not afraid of her and twenty more of her would be awesome.”

“No, thank you”, Sheriff Stilinski interrupted. He still was a bit pale, but seemed better. “The two of you were more than enough for this world.”

He threw a thankful look at Peter who, he was pretty sure, had begun that interplay to give the Sheriff time to recover and to show him that Stiles didn’t suddenly turn into someone who wished pain and suffering on anyone, just turned into another creature that didn’t _understand_ pain and suffering anymore. This reminded him of Scott, a bit. But while Scott didn’t seem to get anymore why a human couldn’t break his arms and legs and jump up the next second and continue doing whatever it was he did, Stiles didn’t deny that pain existed. He just didn’t give it the same meaning and didn’t see it as final as a human would. Later on, during the frenzy of Stiles saying good-bye to everyone in the station, Peter would pull the Sheriff aside and explain to him that to Stiles, pain in this world was comparable to a papercut. Yes, it hurt like a bitch, and yes, you wanted to cut off your finger to never feel such pain again, and yes, whenever you touched the wound, it hurt like crazy, and yes, maybe you wouldn’t be able to do certain things while you were wounded, but seen over a larger time span, the pain was negligible, barely even there. At the Sheriff’s comment, he compared this attitude to Scott’s. According to him, Scott believed that every injury was comparable to a bee sting which hurt for a few seconds and then was forgotten, not preventing any movements.

He was not the only one to prefer Stiles’ version which at least acknowledged that pain existed and could be terrible and would hinder you for some time.

But at this moment, Stiles complained that there never could be enough of his mother, thank you very much, and that he would tell her that his father had said that.

That was another thing the Sheriff couldn’t wrap his head around. His son could just up and see his dead mother anytime he so wished. Or any other dead person. Or he could just haphazardly teleport around the world. Or that he had to do that in order to fulfil his job which was to kill a random list of people in order to be allowed to kill a specific being.

He smiled tiredly and interrupted Stiles’ tirade. “Stiles, my son. I always knew that Beacon Hills was too small for you. For a while, I hoped that the supernatural world would be big enough to keep you here, but then I noticed how dangerous it really is and wished you’d want to leave. And, look at that, now you’re going out there to be the most dangerous being in existence and travel the world because Beacon Hills really is too tiny.”

“No, Dad, you got that all wrong”, Stiles claimed. He stood up and awkwardly leant across the desk to hug his father, seemingly not minding the physical discomfort that position brought. Or would have brought, had he been human. “You know, before the supernatural world, I wanted to go away to some college that would take me and study Criminology or something and then come back and stay with you. After I found out about the supernatural, I wanted to do online courses in the same subject to protect you. And now that I’m no longer human, I swear that I would have stayed here as long as you lived. I would have lived with you and done my job when you were at work or slept or otherwise busy. But with Scott, the situation being what it is…”

“We fear that it is too dangerous”, Peter smoothly cut in when Stiles apparently ran out of words. “Who knows what kind of stunts McCall will pull in order to ‘rescue’ Stiles or whatever delusion he’s talked himself and his pack into.”

“I mean, I don’t care if-“

“Stiles”, Peter interrupted, “do you remember what I managed to drill into your head about human customs and what not to say?”

Properly chastised, Stiles released his father and sat back down, sheepishly staring on the floor.

“Anyway, we wanted to leave here without a bitter note while we can”, Peter continued.

“And we’ll come visit you loads and loads!”, Stiles beamed. “Peter talked me out of randomly appearing whenever you’re alone-“

“I really appreciate that. Peter, I think you’re my favourite son now.”

“Hey!” Stiles pouted again.

Peter, ignoring the Sheriff’s comment, went on like nothing happened. “We agreed to come over every Wednesday evening. Stiles said that you never take that shift, so barring any emergencies, you should be free.”

“Regular meetings won’t stop me from asking my officers about your diet, so don’t even try to cheat!”, Stiles warned.

“What do you mean, your officers? They all work for me!”

“So you’d like to think…”

On that mysterious note, Stiles left the office to say farewell to his father’s – or his? – employees, and Peter had his serious conversation with the Sheriff that consisted of making sure he wouldn’t think that Stiles had turned into an evil creature that revelled in pain. Afterwards, the Sheriff had his serious conversation with Peter that consisted of making sure that he wouldn’t think that he could touch Stiles in any way that a loving father with several arms wouldn’t consider anything but consensual and legal.

Both men came out of these conversations a bit paler, a bit more frightened and a bit more understanding.

A few hours later, Peter, Stiles, and Peter’s car were two states away.

 

When it fell dark, they stopped at a motel. Peter had wanted to go on, further away from Beacon Hills and the memories the mere mention of the name brought, but Stiles demanded that they stop. Actually, Peter had not paid a lot of attention to the fine details. He’d figured that he’d drive, and when he was too tired or they found something interesting, they’d stop. When he slept and Stiles didn’t have work to do, Stiles would drive. On second thought, this was Peter's car. He liked it. He had seen Stiles drive the jeep. Stiles would not drive Peter's car.

Apparently, Stiles had other plans, anyway. He wanted to go to a motel pretty much every night.

“I like to cuddle!”, he declared. “And I like watching you sleep.” He stopped, shocked at himself. “Wow. Not only did I sound like a total creeper, I also did a Cullen! Oh no!” Peter refrained from asking as Stiles fell into an existential crisis. A few minutes later, he was ready to go on, “Anyway, I like to cuddle. And you like to scent-mark, which is just a fancy name for cuddling. Right? Right. Besides, sex in a car is uncomfortable. At least that one guy thought so, but then, he’d been stabbed to Death by the hooker he’d taken into his car, so maybe he’s not the best- Anyway. You can really sleep in a motel, not that crappy mix between nap and sleep you can get in a car, and I’ll have a TV if I decide I don’t wanna go out. I like travelling with you more ‘cause all the really interesting shit always happens when I’m close to you. Remember that night you bit a teenager out in the woods? Like that. Or the whole thing about the Wendigo! I’d never even seen a living one before! But I really need to cuddle, like three hours a day. I’m pretty sure that’s written in my Notes for a Small Death. So come on!”

Stiles had some very compelling arguments, Peter thought, even if he had to shift past a lot of nervous rambling to get to it.

Needless to say, they slept in the motel.

Even if it was only a short night.

At least the bed was well-used.

 

Their first stop, if one didn’t consider the motels and petrol stations, was quite involuntary. In other words, a dryad caused a tree to fall onto the street. Peter barely was able to brake and save his car. Stiles made a snide comment about how such a thing would never have happened had they taken the Jeep. Peter ignored him.

The dryad was still young, likely in the early two hundreds. Their androgynous body was covered by a light green dress and trouser combination that fit well with their a bit darker green skin. The hair in the colour of roots was braided and adorned with feathers, leaves and gnarled branches.

They were in the midst of a temper tantrum.

“You cannot go out, Rixta, you must stay here! It isn’t save elsewhere!”, they shouted with a melodious voice. “At least I know of computers, you old geezers!”

Finally, they noticed the blocked street, the car and the two men staring at them. They cursed colourfully in a volume no human would be able to hear, then smiled. “Good day, travellers.”

Stiles laughed. Peter exchanged a wry look with him. Both knew that the both of them would have reacted in a similar way if their parents had tried to lock them up.

“Good day, nature dweller”, they called back. They exited the car and neared Rixta, but stopped far enough away to not frighten them. Peter put on his most charming smile. “What is a dryad as beautiful as you doing here, all alone?”

Rixta looked like a deer in headlights. “I was – um – I”, they stuttered. Then, their entire face lit up. “I tried to get this tree away from the road, yes, I did!”

Stiles turned away to cover a snort. Peter’s mien didn’t change. “Do you require help, fair dryad?”

“What? I – no, no, I do not. Many thanks, traveller.” Rixta smiled nervously.

“Do not be so modest, fair dryad”, Peter teased.

In a suspicious voice, Rixta asked, “Are you of the Fae, traveller?”

Peter looked amused. “I am not, fair dryad. I am but a traveller. You have no reason to reject our aide.”

Rixta looked more and more uncomfortable. To her great relief, another dryad appeared. They literally grew out of the ground. They were a lot more aged, looking the right age to be Rixta’s parent.

“I despair of you, child”, they said. Then, they looked around. This dryad had a long beard the colour of autumn leaves, also braided and ornamented. Their eyes locked onto Peter. “You have travelled far, wolf, to enter our territory. What have you come here for?”

“Nothing, indeed”, Peter replied, smiling in a friendly, but still vaguely threatening way. Stiles fondly thought that only Peter was capable of such an expression. “My companion and I were merely on the way to discover the world when suddenly, a tree fell down right in front of us. This fair dryad was attempting to remove it; I only offered my help.”

“Truly”, the dryad said slowly. They turned to Rixta and asked, “Why have you not removed the tree? It is fairly easy to do, after all.”

Rixta nodded. “Yes, yes, I know, I’ll get right on it, just a moment!”

They rushed to the stem and put their green hands on it. After only a moment, the tree rose and moved back to the place it was before it fell. Rixta followed it step by step, their bare feet hitting the ground hard as they walked. Finally, the tree and the trunk grew together as if they’d never been cut apart.

“See, there was no reason to offer aid, wolf”, the dryad said and nodded to Rixta. “My child could easily do the work on their own.”

“Then, we will leave. We meant no harm, wise dryad.” Peter nodded and took Stiles’ arm. Stiles allowed himself to be led back to the car.

“And this, child of mine, this behaviour is the reason why we will not allow you to leave our lands”, the parent scolded as Peter and Stiles walked away. They exchanged smiles and started giggling.

What a good start of the trip!

 

“You really are the master of smarmy charm.”

“What?”, Peter asked distractedly. They wanted to take a road that did not lead to a city. It seemed impossible at the moment with the way the other cars made sure that their vehicle wouldn’t be able to get to the street they needed.

“You charmed the trousers off that dryad and then their parent!” Stiles laughed. “I can’t believe you!”

“And you only just said that now because?”

“The parent dryad was watching over us to see if we really left the dryad lands. Awfully suspicious, that one.”

Peter did an almost comical double take, not keeping his eyes on the street anymore, much to Stiles’ amusement. “Stiles! Why didn’t you say that before?”

He almost collided with the car in front of him, only avoiding a catastrophe by breaking sharply. Stiles’ head hit the window so hard it cracked. He simply laughed harder. “God, your face!”

“Are you okay?”, Peter asked full of concern. After just one look at Stiles’ face, he threw his hands up. “Why am I even asking?”

Another crash was only barely prevented by quickly grabbing the wheel again.

Peter cursed colourfully.

Stiles found it all _hilarious._

“Just you wait until I tell your dad!”, Peter threatened.

That shut Stiles up quickly. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Don’t try me. We’re on our way on becoming good friends by fearing for our wellbeing and sanity by being around you.”

“Oh, my dearest zombie, you say the sweetest things!” Stiles pretended to swoon.

Peter huffed and focused on the road, finally spotting a gap that allowed him to leave the highway.

Stiles pouted at being ignored. He began switching between radio stations and singing along.

Being a Death had not improved Stiles’ singing capability in the least. Miserably, Peter turned off the music.

Stiles pouted. He started singing without music.

Peter turned on the radio and upped the sound until the car practically bounced with the beat.

Stiles sang along even louder.

Peter stopped at the next petrol station and bought earphones and earmuffs.

Stiles pouted. He began poking at Peter.

Finally, Peter had enough. He stopped the car. With cautiously slow movements, he took off both of his ear protections. After a few deep breaths, he turned to Stiles.

“What do you want?”

Stiles only grinned.

“I swear, you’re worse than a two-year-old high on sugar”, Peter grumbled as he returned to traffic.

“Yeah? You think so?”

Peter answered decidedly, “Yes.”

“Why that age?”

“Two-year-olds probably can’t yet ask those child questions, but are more annoying and flexible and louder than younger children.”

Bemused, Stiles repeated, “Child questions?”

Peter mimed a higher voice, “Are we there yet? I need a toilet. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. I want to go home. Are we there yet?”

“You said that twice.”

“Who cares? You obviously have never in your life driven in a car with an overly active child.”

Stiles shook his head and leaned back more comfortably.

“Then let me tell you, Stiles: You can talk all you want, but the real and actual Hell is an eternal trip with two hyped-up six-year-olds. I guarantee it.”

Stiles laughed. “So you think feeling like you’re killed in the ways you killed your victims is less torturous than going on a field trip with your nieces?”

“ _Yes_. You don’t understand the horror. Be glad for it, Stiles, be glad.”

Stiles shook with laughter at Peter’s grave tone. Satisfied with the way he’d expressed the seriousness of an offence such as _being in a car with children_ , Peter nodded and paid more attention to the road.

“Are we there yet?”

_“Stiles!”_

Their next stop was more voluntary than their last. They had to stop at a petrol station to fill their tank when the next interruption occurred.

“Hey, you, old geezer!”

Peter didn’t think he was addressed, so he continued browsing the little snack shop. To be honest, even if he thought he was addressed, he would have ignored the call. He was in his best years, basically a youth, not an old man, thank you very much.

“Hey, I’mma talk a you!”

A youth turned Peter around by the shoulder. Bemused, the werewolf allowed the action. A sniff and a look confirmed: In front of him stood a mere human.

Peter raised an eyebrow.

“I wanna money.”

Peter gave his counterpart a look.

“Then get a job.”

The young woman shook her dirty blond hair out of her face.

“I don wan no job. I wanna money.”

“Tough luck”, Peter drawled and turned back to the shelf.

“Gimme your money!”

“I don’t think so.” His voice sounded as uninterested and bored as he was.

“Gimme your money!”, she demanded again. A sharp something pressed against Peter’s spine.

“What do you want to do with that toy? Do you even know how to use it?”

“Gimme your money!”, she shouted.

“I already said no. The drugs really didn’t help your brain, did they?”

She started petting down Peter’s jacket, trying to find his wallet. He let her and continued to look through the snacks. With a slightly raised voice, he asked, “Stiles, do you prefer sweet or salty?”

“You’re plenty salty, so something sweet!”

“Excuse me, I am very sweet!”

Stiles snorted and turned the aisle, coming to stand next to Peter. He reached over his shoulder, completely ignoring the young woman still grabbing at Peter. “Let’s just take a – what’s it called? – ah, yes, healthy assortment.”

“I doubt anyone would call _this_ healthy”, Peter commented dryly after a look at the crisps, lollies, chocolate and salted peanuts Stiles was holding.

Both turned and walked to the cashier without taking further note of the confused young woman.

She continued to stand there, knife raised in one hand, long after Stiles and Peter had already left.

 

“Why did you let her touch you?”, Stiles asked.

The first fifteen minutes in the car had passed silently, Stiles brooding and Peter observing him.

Peter hummed. “I wanted to see what you’d do. Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I wanted to see what _you_ ’d do.”

A short contemplative silence.

“So we’re both equally as awful as the other.”

“Seems so.”

Both sank back into their thoughts. Ten minutes later, Peter asked, “Why did it take you so long to come inside?”

Stiles smiled, not happily or joyfully, a smile filled with both vengeance and malice. “I had to call the cops. A young girl like that, drugged to high heaven, every concerned citizen would have notified the police!”

“And when did you decide on that?”

Stiles was silent for a long time, then he confessed, “I don’t like it when other beings touch you.”

Peter nodded in understanding.

They drove on in silence.

 

Their next stop was Stiles’ fault. It really was, no matter how much he protested. It certainly wasn’t Peter’s fault, and the only other being in the car was Stiles, so it must have been his fault, even if he protested he was not at fault.

Peter knew better.

Peter also knew that there existed synonyms for the word “fault”, but in a situation such as this, he was _slightly_ distracted from contemplating and musing about them.

“ _You were the host to a fucking Nogitsune and didn’t think to tell me it’s still alive?!_ ”, he yelled as he ran as fast as he could in the direction he hoped his car was.

Stiles hollered back, “I did tell you about the Nogitsune! _When is a door not a door_ and all that jazz.”

“You didn’t say it was still alive!”

Peter ducked under a heavy stone thrown at him.

Stiles appeared next to him. He didn’t even have the decency to be out of breath. “It’s not the Nogitsune, anyway. It’s the Kitsune that tricked and betrayed the Nogitsune.” He pulled Peter out of the way as another stone sailed through the air where his head had been shortly before. Nonchalantly, he continued, “She broke their deal and locked it up, almost sending it to Death. It’s out for revenge, and she knows it, and therefore, she’s out for revenge. It wants to send her and her entire family and everything and everyone she holds dear to Death. She wants to send those who let it loose to Death.”

Peter chanced a look backwards, catching a glimpse of the furious woman.

“How does she know that you are the one at fault?”

Stiles hummed and jumped to avoid yet another stone. “I’d say the Nogitsune told her.”

“And why, for moon’s sake, would it do that?”

“It feeds on Chaos and Fear. When it appeared in front of the kin-betrayer, it probably chose to reveal itself so that she would feel Fear and feed it. That she’s decided to go after us only enhances that, and provides it with Chaos as well.”

Peter thought for a moment, then swore.

“I don’t like it when our enemies are as devious as I.”

“Oh, Peter”, Stiles cooed, reaching out to pet his cheek patronisingly. “Nothing could ever surpass you.”

“Fuck y-“ Peter had to interrupt himself to evade another rock.

Suddenly, it got dark. Not the dark a room is without light, or the dark of the night. No, this was a dark as if a cloud had decided to cover the full moon out of the blue, blocking out everything even close to light.

“Stiles!”

The delighted voice seemed to come from everywhere and no-where at all.

A moment later, it was bright again, like a hot summer day with the sun burning down. Peter blinked, disorientated, until he could see again. What caught his eye was a surprise, to say the least.

A large, dangerous-looking fox with the darkest fur imaginable was coiled around Stiles, wrapping its tail – was there more than one? – its nine tails around his wry body, licking his cheek and purring lowly.

“Hey there, Nogitsune”, Stiles said, cool as a cucumber.

Peter was too shocked to say anything.

Stiles took pity on him and explained, “This is the Nogitsune. It possessed me and there were some light mind games involved, but it recognised what I could be and left before I would go to Death and take it with me. You know, after learning more, I quite feel with this guy. Feeling alone, always on the side lines, betrayed…”

He trailed off, his eyes far away. Peter knew he thought of Scott.

Trying to change the topic and the direction Stiles’ thoughts went to, Peter raised an eyebrow and asked, “When you told me about the Nogitsune, you kind of omitted the part where it – what is it? In love with you? In your debt?”

“We never fall in love”, the Nogitsune sneered, wrapping itself tighter still around Stiles. “We love love. Love brings Fear and Chaos, but we do not feel love. We detest love.”

Stiles cooed at it and petted its head. “I know, sweet thing, I know.”

Peter was speechless. Here he was, trapped in what had to be an alternate dimension or a fantasy world created by a thousand-years-old Japanese fox demon, watching said immensely powerful creature be _petted_ like a common house cat by a Small Death.

“When our time comes, we want Stiles to collect us”, the Nogitsune said.

“I will, I will, fear not!” Stiles laughed. He looked at Peter and saw what appeared to be worry, but really was confusion. “Don’t be afraid, my favourite zombie, I’ll escort everyone who knows my secret, and especially you.”

“How… nice”, Peter said.

He looked around for a bit to keep his mind off the _fucking thousand-years-old demon spirit of Chaos cuddling like a fucking kitten_. All around them were – a tree. The very same tree, turned this way and that, copied a thousand times, surrounding a clearing. The grass was an identical green blade, the top split into two. Every five seconds, the perfect replicas of one insect – a firefly? – flew into and out of the clearing. Equidistant from each other stood clones of one bush. Two steps in front of them lay the same four stones.

These surroundings drove Peter insane within minutes, so he turned his attention back to his wayward travel companion.

They had passed onto heavy petting.

The fox’ whole body shook as Stiles stroked his hands over its flanks, scratched behind its ears and caressed the soft skin of its throat.

Peter impatiently waited for a few seconds longer before clearing his throat.

“Not now, zombie wolf, I’m busy”, Stiles muttered, distracted by the dark tresses gliding through his fingers.

Peter sighed. When he still got no reaction, he sat down and regarded the long fur curiously. He couldn’t resist reaching out, touching it with one finger.

Soft.

The fox turned around, snarling. When it saw that it was just Peter and that the only reaction its threatening growling got was an unimpressed eyebrow, it snorted inelegantly and turned into Stiles.

Peter looked from one to the other, both wearing the exact same face of disbelieving joy.

“Look at you!”, one Stiles exclaimed.

“No, look at you! Can you see that?!”, the other shouted back.

They moved through a series of increasingly complicated hand and arm movements, copying the other’s perfectly. Then, they simultaneously raised an enthusiastic thumbs-up and said, “You’re good.”

Peter looked from one to the other and wondered if Sheriff Stilinski could feel the same feelings of dread that overcame him.

 

Sheriff Stilinski shivered in his office, seemingly without reason. Somehow, he had to think back to that fateful day when his beautiful yellow wall had been turned into that dreadful brown, and the feeling he got every single time when Claudia and Stiles were scheming some sort of mischief.

He was glad it was Thursday morning and he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever insanity Stiles had concocted or got himself into now until next week.

For a moment, he considered getting a congratulatory hamburger. Or maybe a steak? And possibly a cake!

But then he remembered those eyes, watching his every move towards food. He suspected it was the new deputy, Parish, who kept Stiles informed about his dietary habits at work.

Could he fire someone for being more loyal to his boss’ son than to his superior?

The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to find out. But Stiles’ revenge would be quick and merciless. Maybe he’d come home and the whole fridge would be empty and instead, there would be nothing but kale and tofu and spinach.

He almost retched at the mere thought.

Better not to risk it.

 

A few hours later, Peter drove on, down a long, straight road with no turnoffs.

Behind him sat two identical people, doing identical things at the same time, saying identical things at the same time, contorting their faces in identical ways at the same time.

This long, long straight road with no turnoffs seemed, with every mile passing, more and more like a road to hell.

As if hearing his thoughts, the Nogitsune asked a riddle, “What leads to hot kindness?”

The Small Death gleefully answered, “The way to Hell is paved with good intentions!”

Peter wondered if it already was too late to turn back to Beacon Hills.

 

After a harrowing two weeks, from one moment to the other, in the middle of a word in what sounded like an ancient Japanese song tuned to a newly-released single, the Nogitsune – disappeared.

Peter breathed a relieved sigh – the fake Stiles could sing as well as the real Stiles. Or was unwell the better word? Peter felt unwell whenever any version of Stiles started to sing. And now he thought about such idiotic things. Was he also turning into a Stiles? That mere question was the only answer he needed, he mused.

“Where did Stiles go? Oh, does he have some Small Death business?” A short pause, then, pouting, “We don’t like being alone.”

Peter bit back a curse. Stiles left and the Nogitsune stayed? What horrible crimes did Peter commit in his past lives to suffer such a punishment? Because he knew that the karma from only one life could not possibly be bad enough to warrant _this_.

In the last days, Peter had learned that the best way to deal with the Nogitsune was to ignore it. Most often, it only talked to him when it was hungry, so it dropped some comments that made Peter mad, or afraid, or crazy. They never were too bad; Peter knew of many worse things the demon could hint at. It always steered clear of the fire, the coma, the resulting madness and his meeting with Death at the hands of his nephew. Everything else was fair play, apparently. Stiles and Peter both knew what it did and why it did it, so they let it happen. Even if he didn’t need it, Peter always got reassurance from Stiles. One of the best examples for this weird spiral of hunger-fear-reassurance was a nightmare Peter had had the night before. While the Nogitsune was fed by every argument they drove past, spent its nights while Peter slept somewhere else getting sustenance and caused enough mayhem with Stiles to be nourished by the Chaos, it still had some… dare Peter call them cravings. It loved some snacks during long stretches of road with no other vehicle for tens of miles. So, one day, after one of Peter’s nightmares about losing Stiles in a fire the same way he lost his family, it said, “Do you really think you can protect Stiles? We know you can’t. You also know it.”

At first, Peter was overcome with paralysing fear. Then, he remembered that Stiles was a Small Death. He could not meet Death. He _was_ a Death. The moment the wave of emotion had passed, Stiles crawled up to the front seat, held Peter’s hand, played with his fingers and explained exactly that.

Every other day, this comment would have caused Peter to laugh out a sarcastic reply like, “I’d rather think it’s the world that needs protection, not Stiles.” But that day, because of the nightmare, there first was an irrational emotional response which fed the Nogitsune. It didn’t apologise, and Peter didn’t expect it to. He understood.

The Nogitsune just didn’t have any impulse control and wouldn’t suffer a single moment of hunger. Considering the seventy years it had starved, that was understandable.

It did not make it any easier, especially with only the Nogitsune as his company.

Peter thought about stopping for the night and waiting for Stiles’ return, but the only motels he saw looked absolutely distasteful – not to speak of the stench he could smell through the closed car door. The only other options were hotels so high-class that only guests in brand or evening clothes were accepted. So, Peter drove on.

Twenty minutes later, the Nogitsune got uneasy.

“It’s that damn kin-betrayer”, it grumbled. “She tries to summon us, but we don’t want to go. We want to wait for Stiles. The kin-betrayer will only want to hurt us, or maybe make a deal with us. But we don’t make deals with kin-betrayers.”

“Can you resist the spell for long periods of time?”, Peter asked. He didn’t even mean it maliciously as he might have at the beginning of their united travels. The ridiculously soft fur he sometimes got to pet for a few minutes at a time had endeared him to this chaotic creature.

The Nogitsune barked, “His blood clung to your hands!”

Agreeable, Peter obliged him and thought of Stiles’ meeting with Death, the horror of the gradually slowing heart, the spurt of blood, the dimming light in his eyes. As always, he shook with protective fury and impotent anger afterwards. The Nogitsune ate those feelings up almost desperately.

“We cannot hold out forever, and you will eventually start to taste boring”, it confessed.

Peter nodded. “Then go. I know you can track us down somehow, or Stiles will pick you up. I think he’s fond enough of you to not leave you to suffer overly long, should anything go wrong.”

“We will go”, the Nogitsune complied, “and we will return. We have not found your presence… too distasteful.”

Without another word, it was gone.

Now alone in the car, Peter was a weird mixture of calm, worried and relieved.

 

A few minutes later, Stiles appeared again, popping up on the front seat as if nothing had happened, still singing that god-awful song. Only when he’d finished it, did he ask, “So, the Nogitsune is already gone?”

Peter grunted as a response, too concentrated on somehow overtaking the stupid driver in front of him. Mobile phone, hot coffee and a cigarette along with a car that cost even more than Peter’s and way too much power which caused the man to drive frustratingly slowly one minute and too fast the next. On the other side of the road, the world had conspired against Peter. First, one car after another made pulling over impossible. Next, the road was so curvy he couldn’t see far enough ahead to dare try overtaking that bastard in front of him.

“We probably should turn around”, Stiles said, almost as an afterthought.

That was surprising enough that it ripped Peter’s attention from the driver in front of him. “Why? Has something happened to the Nogitsune?”

“No, no.” Stiles seemed to hesitate for a moment, then cautiously revealed, “You’ll probably take this in a bad way and I certainly shouldn’t tell you, and you’ll be all irrational and afraid all the time and the Nogitsune won’t even be here to profit from it, but I should probably tell you ‘cause I think you’d want to be there. Derek’s gonna meet Death soon.”

Peter didn’t even stop to scold Stiles about the absolutely Small Death way he’d broken the news.

He made an extremely illegal U-turn, hitting the car in front of him maybe-slightly-definitely on purpose a bit because Peter was nothing if not petty, and only spoke to confirm where he was going was still right.

He was so anxious that he even let Stiles, the Small Death with no fear of Death, ride his beautiful, expensive car.

It was bad.

 

Of course, when they finally arrived in Mexico, standing in front of a confused Cora for one minute and the bloody corpse of Derek the next, Stiles revealed the truth – after a bit of laughter about Peter’s horrified face, which did not endear him to Cora who wasn’t as hardened to Small Death ways as Peter. She rushed at him, trying to harm him for laughing at her hurt.

Stiles stumbled back, resembling the inelegant and clumsy way he’d moved as a human as he sometimes did for “comedic effect”, waving his hands about and screaming, “Wait! Wait! He’s coming back!”

He flashed out of existence for a second. When he came back, so did Derek’s heartbeat. Derek’s body shrunk, and a minute later an enormous black wolf stood in front of them, roaring loudly before running off to, as Stiles put it, “rip out the hunter’s throat. With his _teeth_.”

Peter raised one eyebrow at Stiles, not quite recovered from the emotional turmoil of the last days, and especially not from just seeing his nephew go to Death right in front of him.

Stiles didn’t even pretend not to understand.

“Worthy werewolves get a second chance, you know? If it’s not a situation where they’ll be sent to Death immediately afterwards, they’re bound for Heaven and they’re of age, and especially if they were or are an alpha and of a small, almost extinct pack, they’ll come back with a little extra – the full shift.”

Cora growled disbelievingly. “If that’s the case, why don’t we know about it?”

Stiles hummed thoughtfully. “I think it’s got to do with ambitious parents, alphas and packs in general sending all they deemed worthy to Death to maybe receive the blessing of a member being able of the full shift. Got quite inventive about it, too. Thought that they had to be sent to Death on a certain day in a certain way. You humans can be so weird sometimes.”

“Says you”, Peter shot back, but the emotional rollercoaster had tired him and he wasn’t quite up to his usual level of snark and sarcasm. Stiles’ eyes lit up and he started detailing all the gruesome details about the ritualistic ways packs long gone had sent their offspring to Death for the small chance of receiving a blessing. It was soothing, even if slightly disturbing, judging by Cora’s face. But Peter was used to comparisons between the latest corpse they’d seen and the various ways other beings with the same motive had sent their victims to Death throughout the centuries.

Stiles absently hugged him close. Thankful, Peter clung to him, breathing in the familiar scent. He didn’t protest as Stiles slowly led him to the car and drove them back to the hotel. He was more than ready for a nap and some staring at the blank wall, trying not to relive his nephew’s and his other family members’ going to Death.

The next day, he was over this trauma as well as he ever would be. Stiles and Peter spent a week with Derek and Cora, helping them with the full shift and chatting and having fun. They found Derek to be a lot more relaxed now that he was away from Beacon Hills, and Cora, after she got to terms that her brother temporarily went to Death and now had a rare ability, was the confident young woman they’d known her to be in Beacon Hills, but without the cutting sarcasm and the baggage of almost dying, being tortured, having her brother give up his Alpha powers for her and being reminded of her dead family constantly, even if she still was frosty to Stiles.

All in all, it was a good trip for Peter, even if he wished the beginning could have been different. But when the Nogitsune appeared, very smug and still bloody, he knew it was time to move on.

 

As the group of three – Peter behind the wheel, Stiles and the Nogitsune on the back seat – left, the demon started to regale them with the story of the days it had spent with the kin-betrayer. Apparently, Yoshiko Nukimura really wanted to make a deal – her, down to the last tail, in exchange for her innocent family. The Nogitsune thought for a bit, then agreed. First, it destroyed her tails, all of them. Then, it tortured her brutally, leaving her barely alive and weak. After that, it put her into a container and locked it with the words, “We will come back after the exact same amount of time you have restrained us.” Knowing that it had only promised not to send the kin-betrayer’s family to Death or harm them physically, it then staged the house to appear as if someone had broken in, spread the kin-betrayers blood and left a riddle. “What is a tailless fox?”

That was somehow an allusion to an old Japanese text that was lost in time to humans, but still well-known to Kitsune of all kinds.

And Deaths, of course. Stiles cheerfully answered, “As well as a tongue-less frog, a wingless fly and a featherless bird!”

The Nogitsune had great plans of periodically sending the kin-betrayer’s hair or blood to the family and rejoicing in their fear and pain.

After telling its story and gloating a bit, it was sad to go, but had to return to Japan to go see its children and, just as important, to show the young Kitsune who had gone cheeky in its absence their place.

Without even a sound to accompany its leave, it was gone, leaving behind only a bloody imprint on the car seat.

Peter threw a look at Stiles who sheepishly started to clean.

 

After driving around for a month longer, encountering all sorts of creatures, humans and other beings, Stiles suddenly stopped his humming, which Peter preferred over the obnoxious and off-key singing, and gasped. Peter glanced over to him, but without saying anything, Stiles reached over, grasped Peter’s shoulder and they suddenly were back in Beacon Hills.

On the left stood the pack. Scott was bleeding heavily from a wound on his stomach. Allison was inside what looked like a disturbed circle of mountain ash, unconscious. Lydia knelt next to Jackson, desperately trying to revive him. Isaac cowered behind a fallen tree, having pulled Chris Argent along with him.

On the left stood an enraged dryad. Tears the size of golf balls were rolling down their cheeks. They commanded the nature to obey and reduce their enemy to smithereens, moving their hands and arms in drawn-out circles that belied their emotional upheaval.

“They were my only child!”, they cried. “I have warned them against leaving, but they thought they were so grown-up! And now, they are gone! And you, you inferior wolves dare refuse me my retribution?!”

Stiles, serious for once, stepped forward.

All eyes pivoted to him. The pack released joyous screams of his name, hope re-inflamed. Scott was begging, “Stiles! Stiles! Dude, you’re back! Thank God! Help us! This fairy, he’s, he’s crazy! Stop him!”

The dryad snorted. “I thought you were but harmless travellers, wolf and companion. Have come to aid this pack of murderer-helpers and monsters?”

Peter recognised them in a sudden rush: It was the parent of the dryad who’d thrown a tree in the middle of the road in the beginning of their trip. What had been their name again?

“Rixta will forever grow in the Everlasting Forest”, Stiles said in a grave voice.

Ah. That had been their name.

The dryad looked taken aback for a moment, but gathered themselves within a moment. “You are a Courier.”

“I am.”

“Have you taken my child?”

“I did.”

“And they are well?”

“Yes. Rixta has recovered. Do you want me to bring them a message?”

The dryad wiped tears off their cheeks and swallowed harshly. “Tell them… Tell them that I love them, and that I won’t forget them. They will always be my first child. Also tell them that I will avenge them.”

Stiles bowed and disappeared. Peter met the grief-struck gaze levelled on him head-on.

“I know only little of your ways, and I do not assume to know your sorrow, but with him, rest assured, wise dryad, that he will fulfil your vengeance if allowed.”

The dryad averted their eyes, but nodded slightly.

Thirty seconds later, Stiles reappeared.

“Rixta is well”, he announced. “They have received your message and replied. Would you like to hear-?”

“Yes, Courier. Tell me my child’s last words, and I will obey them.”

“Very well.” Stiles straightened. “Tell my parent: I am happier here than I expected. I have met my grandparent, and they also are well. I will forget about the bad words spoken between us and only remember the good and beseech of you to do the same. The murderer was taken alongside with me and is paying for her crimes in Hell, but do what you need to do to feel as well as me. I love you, Mapa, and am waiting for you.”

The dryad broke down. Where they cried grew solemn white flowers. Peter recognised agapanthus, calla, chrysanthemum, lily and rose amongst a myriad of others, all funeral flowers. He respectfully waited as the wave of grief passed over the dryad, the same way it had over him when Stiles had brought back the words of his deceased family.

Scott was not so courteous.

“What the hell is even going on? Stiles! That guy is a murderer! He killed Jackson!”

He even stood, as well as he could with the hole in his stomach, and pointed at the weeping dryad.

Stiles threw him a cold look and only replied, “It was justified.”

“What do you mean, justified? Jackson didn’t kill that girl!”

“But he stood in the way of the parent’s vengeance. That’s a crime punishable by much more than just going to Death in dryad culture.”

“What dryad culture? That doesn’t matter! This is a human world, and we follow human laws!”

“You may do so, Alpha McCall, and the pack that follows you, but that is not true for the greatest part of supernatural beings. This wise dryad is older than the USA, so of course they will not follow such short-lived laws.”

“That’s- There’s no way that guy is so old!”

Stiles sighed. “Yes, Scott. A dryad looks like they are forty by the time they are about five-hundred years old. And they explained these things to you when they went to you to seek entrance into your territory to take their revenge, as is custom and tradition for dryads.”

Scott had recovered enough that he could remove his hand from his stomach. He used it to point threateningly at Stiles as he glared at him. “That doesn’t mean that he can march in here and murder everyone!”

“They wouldn’t have wanted that, anyway! I bet that they wanted to investigate their child’s going to Death, as would any parent.”

“Courier”, the dryad said. Stiles turned towards them immediately. “I thank you for bringing the messages.”

“Don’t worry about it. I took the place of your ancestor, that makes your family my responsibility. Had I been allowed to, I would have rescued Rixta instead of just taking their murderer along.” He huffed. “I tried. I had the murderer locked away beforehand, but she was released. For some reason, this was meant to be. I am sorry for it, but I cannot change it.”

“I understand. That is the way of life. Courier, you know best that nothing lasts forever.”

Stiles bowed his head.

“Wolf, how do you stand to this pack?”

Peter was caught off-guard, but replied readily, “They live on the grounds of my perished pack. Nothing further binds us.”

“And you know of our laws.”

“I dare not think that I know them all, but I am well-informed.”

“Then be our judge and reconvene them with the laws that bind this pack.”

“It would be my honour.”

“What? No! Peter’s a murderer and a psychopath!”, Scott protested.

“If you have someone else”, Stiles said with a raised eyebrow, “who is impartial to this situation and knows the dryad law, by all means, be my guest.”

He was silent.

That moment, Lydia let out a scream, tears streaming down her face.

Suddenly, Stiles disappeared, coming back only a fraction of a second later. Peter only caught it because he’d looked out for it since they entered the clearing.

She had lost the fight for Jackson’s live.

She broke down, unconscious from the pain of her loss.

Chris, who’d tried to help her when the battle with the dryad had calmed down, turned on Scott.

“You told me that this dryad wanted to kill indiscriminately! You never told me that they only wanted to avenge their child’s death!”

Scott’s eyes grew large and confused. “What- Mister Argent?”

“Allison and I would not have supported you if you had told us the truth!” He turned to the dryad. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if there’s a protocol or anything, but please forgive me and my daughter. We were told lies, and I-“

“You are forgiven, hunter”, the dryad spoke. “But do not presume that any other being would give such as I did. Take your daughter and leave. There has been enough loss.”

Chris nodded firmly, gathered Allison in his arms and left without a look back. Before leaving the clearing, he stopped. “For all it’s worth: I’m sorry about your loss, and good hunt.”

Scott stared at his retreating back in betrayal and turned around to see if his pack agreed.

Isaac shrunk under his gaze. Lydia was still unconscious, and Jackson had gone to Death.

“I’ll-I’ll go and get Lydia, get her help”, he stuttered, carefully lifting the unconscious girl and running to catch up to the Argents.

Which left Stiles, Peter, the dryad and Scott alone.

Scott was furious, of course. He launched into a speech about pack and helping each other. Unfortunately, nobody of those it was geared to was here. Even more unfortunately, the majority of them wouldn’t be able to hear him even if they were, injured as they were.

Peter ignored him and, biding Stiles with a look to gag Scott, asked the dryad to say in their words what had happened.

They recounted: They had come here in righteous fury, trying to find out what had happened to their child. Apparently, a Death had come by to inform them of their going to Death, the reason and the place. The dryad only wanted to see where Rixta had gone to Death and to punish the one who had caused it. For that reason, they had arranged a meeting with the Ruling Alpha, Scott McCall. Others had warned them not to come, or not to speak with Scott, but they were old and followed the unwritten rules. Scott had received them ill-prepared, not responding to tradition and insulting them. But they knew that the awfully short-lived world of the creatures not of the forest who could not retain knowledge as much as they did and did not honour tradition the same way, and didn’t put it down to ill will. They had explained that their child had been sent to Death, and that they wanted to see where it happened. Scott had been sympathetic and compassionate right until they had uttered that they wanted to do the same to the murderer that had been done to Rixta. Then, he had been appalled. The dryad knew of the fragile moralities of short-lived races, so they explained to Scott that it was the way of the dryads. Scott didn’t want to see reason, so they threatened that they were well within their rights to remove any obstacles to justice. Scott had responded by rallying his pack and trying to send the dryad to Death. They, of course, had defended themselves, but even when Scott’s pack saw how terribly inferior they were compared to the dryad, they didn’t stop, which had led to the dryad’s attacks becoming harsher until Jackson had been dealt a deadly blow and Stiles’ consequent arrival.

Scott, when the gag was removed and he had vented his displeasure about this procedure, his treatment and Stiles and Peter’s behaviour, told an entirely different story; according to him, the dryad had suddenly appeared at his door and demanded that they be allowed to kill in his territory. Thinking of all the innocents living in Beacon Hills, he of course didn’t allow it and bid the dryad to move on. Apparently agreeing, but really just moving to the preserve to fulfil their plan of chaos, death and mayhem, they left. Obviously, when it was discovered that the dryad was murdering, he and the pack called the Argents and went out to stop them.

Only that within his story, Scott oftentimes contradicted himself and lied so obviously it was painful to watch.

“In my role as impartial judge”, Peter spoke, his tone ringing with old, ritualistic magic, “I have listened to one side, and I have listened to the other. I have not interrupted, and I have not allowed interruptions. Both sides told the truth as they know it, or the lies as they want it to be known. With my ears, I have heard for lies. With my eyes, I have searched for untruths. Within my head rests the knowledge on which I base my judgment. Speak, Wise Dryad of the Forest, what say your laws? Do they permit you to go into another’s territory and slay your enemy?”

“They do not, Impartial Judge”, the dryad responded. “They bind me to seek council with the leader of the territory. They bind me to speak to this being, and claim my enemy’s life as my own. They bind them to choose to relinquish their claim to my enemy to me, or to carry out the sentence in my stead.”

“Do your laws, Wise Dryad of the Forest, allow you to slay regardless of the leader’s orders?”

“They do, Impartial Judge. They put my claim to my enemy’s life above the leader’s if that being wishes to protect my enemy. They bid me to slay my enemy without regard of the leader’s words if my just vengeance is denied. They allow me to remove any obstacle. They permit me to defend myself against unjust attacks.”

“Have you informed the territory leader of your laws, and the consequences of him breaking them, Wise Dryad of the Forest?”

“I have, impartial judge.”

“Do you, Wise Dryad of the Forest, confess to any untruths spoken before my judgment?”

“I do not, Impartial Judge. I have given the truth as I know it. I have laid it at your feet and await your judgment.”

“I hear the truth in your veins. I hear the truth in your heart. I see the truth in your body. I see the truth in your eyes. I know the knowledge which you have imparted on me. You have spoken nothing but the truth.”

Stiles had gagged Scott again early during the spiel between Peter and the dryad when he geared up to interrupt, and now removed it. Immediately, Scott swelled up, full with righteous fury, and demanded to be released and for this farce to end; he hadn’t lied at all. He went on for quite a bit, but they waited him out, impatience etched into every line of their faces.

“In my role as impartial judge”, Peter intoned, “I have judged the Wise Dryad’s report true. What says you, True Alpha of Beacon Hills? Do your laws permit you to stop someone’s vengeance?”

Seeing that he couldn’t get out of this situation, even if he wanted to, Scott harshly said, “If that means stopping someone from being killed, yeah, they do!”

Peter threw him an unimpressed look for his language, but continued regardless, “What say your laws, True Alpha of Beacon Hills, about sending the transgressing being to Death?”

“Well… I guess they kind of allow it, I think? Like, you don’t get arrested if you shoot at a burglar in your house, right?”

Peter sighed deeply. Still, he went on, “True Alpha of Beacon Hills, what permit your laws grieving parents investigating their child’s going to Death?”

“There’s- Look, Peter, you know all that stuff. There’s no reason to ask me. You know I’m bad at stuff like this.” Scott looked at him with pleading eyes, but was met with no mercy. After a long, uncomfortable silence, he spoke up again. “Well, like, we’ve got police and everything, right? And people don’t investigate crimes when their relatives are involved, like doctors don’t do surgery on their wives and kids. Right?” He shot an uncertain look at Stiles, seeking help. But he continued standing there, emotionless as only a Death can be. Intimidated, Scott went on, “So, he could, like, go to the crime scene and what-not, but he’s not allowed to do, like, _real_ investigations.”

“What say your laws, True Alpha of Beacon Hills, about hindering such endeavours?”

“What, like, stopping him from going about and killing? They tell me to do that!”

A long pause, then Peter said, “The impartial judge has heard, and seen, that you do not answer the questions asked of you, and will therefore proceed to judge immediately.”

“Seconded”, added Stiles with a bitter twist to his mouth before returning to the ritualistic words, “As the most impartial judge there can be, as sure and swift as Death, tell us your verdict.”

Peter considered pausing for dramatic effect, but he saw that only Scott didn't have a fucking clue about the end of this farce of a trial, so he just went on, “I have heard your words, Wise Dryad of the Forest, and found no falsehood in them. I have heard your words, True Alpha of Beacon Hills, and found no truth in them. Thereby, I find no fault in the Wise Dryad of the Forest, while the True Alpha of Beacon Hills is riddled with flaws. This is my Judgment, and it shall be judged and hold true.”

Thunder clap.

Lightning strike.

Scott was on the ground, screaming.

The dryad was watching, vindicated.

Stiles grabbed onto Peter’s hand, slightly melancholic as he watched his first friend burn to Death.

Peter wanted to avert his eyes, but took his role seriously and firmly looked.

The screams stopped.

For a second, Stiles disappeared.

The dryad thanked Peter and Stiles before leaving.

Peter embraced Stiles, held him close as he decided whether to cry or not.

“It’s just been so long, Peter. So very long. I didn’t see him for forty years, and then, I could only see his flaws. Even before that, I was very dubious about some of the things he did. And still, he was my first friend, my best friend for most of my human life.”

“It is alright to grieve what was, darling, and not what is.” Peter tenderly stroked his hair.

“You know”, Stiles continued as if he hadn’t heard anything, “the first five years of training, I was so obsessed with Scott, thinking that I’d reveal myself so that I could bring him to Death. I was so stressed about it, hoping he wouldn’t go to Death in the meantime, before I could tell him what I was. And now”, a wet laugh, “I find out that I would have ferried him anyway!”

Peter held Stiles through his sobs and cries, holding him close and never letting go.

 

Death is inevitable, unstoppable, everlasting, all-powerful, kind and sad, feared and welcomed.

So what is the one who clings to Death?

_In love._


End file.
